vitam et mortem
by Shiny Kirby
Summary: They say Hell is other people. (Phantom, Fulbright, Blackquill. AU- Phantom dies at the sniper's hand.)


There are three certain things you, the being last known as the phantom, finds out immediately.

One, you are dead.

All you can remember of said death is a sudden influx of emotion, not activated by your own free will but by sudden instinct, out of what seemed like nowhere- feelings of panic and desperate curiosity and most importantly pure raw _fear_, an occurence that seemed invonvenient and unpleasant and you most certainly had no wishes to have it happen again. (And as for now, it was apparent that it wasn't going to happen again unless in exceptional circumstance; all you feel is that same, flat dullness that has always been there, no matter what expression lights up your 'face' at any given time. You have always been completely numb inside, and in all honesty you wanted to keep it that way.)

* * *

Two, for all intents and purposes you are still, effectively, Detective Bobby Fulbright.

You have his clothes, his face, his voice, his personality, his _identity_. The real Fulbright, the one who had actually, genuinely lived, had his status as a clear cut, definitive human being taken from him when he was killed, suddenly and uncerimoniously with a knife. You had swiftly made sure that his body was dealt with in such a way that it was unrecognisable. It was if the man trusted everyone he met at face value, and that was precisely why he was such an easy target. Had he really believed in placing all your trust in other people, or was he simply chasing a mirage? (Either way, he truly was a naive man. Humans can't truly trust each other. That's exactly why the illusion of trust is so enticing, after all.)

* * *

Three, you are in some kind of afterlife, and it is very much a road to absolutely nowhere.

In fact, that's the exact form it takes; an unclear, blurry place, meaningless and bland, a path that you have no choice but to keep walking on. Occasionally, you _think _you see other people, mere spectres of human beings gone past, but they disappear quickly, leaving your mind as quickly as they entered it. It reminds you of your own state of mind, dull and unclear and with occasional denied and locked away thoughts of actually being _someone _now and again taking blurry form in the distance. (If you had to feel anything for this place other than the blankness that mostly clouded your mind, it would be an apparent and biting distaste. At any rate, you had an eternity to sit around and nowhere to go, so there was nothing to do but walk.)

* * *

And, suddenly, one day, one of those shapes of actual beings emerges, and it was one you would have preferred not to meet.

In this most boring rendition of Hell, time didn't seem to pass at all, for every moment seemed to blend into the next- or at least, until _that _happened.

_That_, of course, being the moment where Bobby Fulbright stared into the eyes of someone who looked exactly like himself.

The silence is long, for there is nothing to be said. How, exactly, would a conversation go between a victim and his murderer, especially since said murderer had been rigourously trained to express all the emotion of the world yet suppress all real emotive feeling as much as possible, and therefore simply could not feel any regret for their crimes?

You vaguely remember someone telling you that "dead men tell no tales". And as such, the man once known as Bobby Fulbright said nothing, and you, the person once known as...well, many things, none of which being your genuine self, which you couldn't remember for the life of you (_hah_, life) and which you had all the reason to believe it had never existed at all to begin with, also decided to keep quiet. You're not sure how this world of nothing appears to the man beside you, or if it is even different at all, but in both your points of view there seems to be an endless road and little to do, so you walk, and walk, and walk some more, until time once again spreads out into an endless nonexistence.

* * *

Finally, Fulbright speaks. He lets slip a few words every now and again; but they're in a quiet voice, carefully composed, slowly said and very weary sounding, as if he is in a perpetual state of tiredness and exhaustion. (Not that spirits such as yourself could sleep, technically. The closest thing to being able to, ah, rest in peace was letting your apparent consciousness drift into an absolute void.)

From what it sounded like, being deceased for quite a while had taught the ex-detective some tricks. One was that, according to him, you could actually look on into the world of the mortal living, if you willed yourself to. It worked in a strange way, in that you may only do it _sometimes_, whenever what strange force worked to keep this place of the dead running let you do that. You're not sure if you care or not.

Another was that occasionally, sometimes, you would be aware of the fact that somebody you knew had just entered this world of ghosts, even if you could never spot them in this eternally sprawling plane of 'existence'. You couldn't figure out how; you would just _know_. It was simply a sense of knowing someone who had been relevant to you at some point had now shared your rather grim fate. (You idly wonder if you'd experience that sensation when someone like Blackquill died, and whether that would be sooner or later. You dismiss it soon enough, figuring it had something to do with emotion, and you wanted those muted, barely even whispered feelings that popped up for two seconds and then disappeared as soon as you locked them away to be completely irrelevant to you. You were an endless abyss, and you always would be.)

A third thing you were told was that every now and again, those fading spectres you occasionally thought you saw could be talked to, albeit rarely and shortly. Also, according to Fulbright, he thought it strange that neither him nor you had faded away from sight yet. It was as if your souls were bonded together, unlike all those other distant former human beings who flickered and vanished soon after he had conversed with them. (When you heard that, you were almost tempted to make what seemed in your mind to be a sarcastic sort of "joke" about you and Fulbright being soul mates. That is, until you remembered what that actually _meant_, and quickly shut up.)

Whenever the ex-detective speaks, it's with a subdued tone you'd never thought of or conveyed him as having, which confuses you slightly. Your portrayal has to have been at least _fairly _accurate, since you had managed to fool his fellow peers for a year, at least. Maybe it had to do with the endless silence of this land of spirits. Maybe it was because whatever justice had been to Bobby Fulbright, it could no longer be carried out in death. Or maybe, you reckon, it is because of you.

(You haunt each other, you realise, both ghost's sad excuse for a life and death etched in the other person's ethereal form, looking exactly the same and completely different at the same time. Bobby Fulbright is the most (ha!) _living _existence in this poor man's alternate of an afterlife, a _Hell_, and the thing that made you feel something very vaguely like unpleasantness. They say Hell is other people, and the moment you realise the truth behind that statement is the moment the door you locked everything you used to know about yourself behind begins to slowly unlock itself.)

* * *

When you start to observe him, you come to a realisation about Bobby Fulbright, and that is that he is as unsure about his own identity as you are about your own.

Sure, he has a name, a face; but you can see he's starting to lose his grip on the personality he'd always put up when alive, even if all of the dead were very detached from this place on a whole.

Sometimes, he stops, and he closes his eyes. He twitches, or at least does the ghostly equivalent of such, and just begins whispering the same thing to himself over and over again.

"In justice we trust. In justice we trust. In justice we trust. My name is Bobby Fulbright. In justice we trust. I am Bobby Fulbright. In...justice we...trust..."

He can never manage to say those words with the zest and vigour that you would have associated with him while playing him, and every single time, he trails off, leading to a nigh unpenetratable silence. (Sometimes, he doesn't even say that much, just the word "justice", repeating it listlessly as if it took effort to even speak it. "Justice", although you had repeated it many times while in your final disguise, had never really meant anything to you in particular, but it had obviously meant something very significant to Fulbright at some point, even if it no longer lit up his eyes.)

Now and again, he even tries to do the actions; he presents and polishes a figurative badge, he runs after and arrests imaginary wrongdoers, he lets out a hollow laugh and shows a false grin.

And, eventually, he starts to fake even the emotions that once came to him at the drop of a hat. Happiness. Shock. Sadness. Anger. Shame. Excitement. He reacts with them all, one after the other, and it's systematic and monotonous and such an obvious veneer of emotion and feeling that you would almost find it pathetic if it didn't invoke such an...odd feeling in you. You can't pinpoint why, but you could almost hate that feeling.

Soon after, he tells you of his old identity. Once upon a time, Bobby Fulbright was nothing. A boy who may not have existed, for all he did for the world. He may have shown some slight interest in that comic book superhero type justice that lingered in his mind, but he was so insignificant and tedious and _ordinary _as far as human beings went he could've left the face of the earth and no one, not even himself, would've noticed anything had changed. It was only when he decided that he wanted to be _somebody _who did _something _for the world that he decided to change. The previous Bobby Fulbright, the one who was nothing to nobody and never would be, had died, replaced by the jovial and vivacious superhero detective. He says that when he decided to become a detective, he didn't just want to be a just and righteous one, oh no. He wanted to be a _real _champion of justice, no, scratch that, _the very embodiment of justice itself_.

He says with a bitter smile, most unlike the one you would've associated with him, that his plan worked well, so well, so very well that in fact he was so fitted for his job that none of his peers would ever even think of knowing him outside a work environment, and that dramatic persona he had worked hard to create had become alarmingly easy to copy and mimic, and if someone had come in to the criminal affairs department dressed up in his clothes and echoed his voice, everyone there would be none the wiser- and they might never know the real Bobby Fulbright was gone.

"After all..._you _would know about that, wouldn't you?"

(You wouldn't care. You _shouldn't _care. But he leaves you simply with those last words, hanging forever in this neverending abyss as you both walk down the endless road, and you realise with a sense of dread that you can understand, sympathise, _relate_, and you don't know why and you can't possibly recognise how and it truly does hit you in that moment that you don't even know _who the hell you even think you are_.)

* * *

One day, you can't see anything, but you can hear voices. Voices that almost certainly do not belong to your phantom detective companion-in-death. You only barely hear their muffled voices, but it still strikes a chord in your heart.

"...And we were unsuccesful there, sir, in regards to getting information from that spy Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth got arrested all those years ago. She just started laughing at us, saying we were 'way too serious' and we needed to 'lighten up a little'. Then in between one of her laughing sessions she told us that she was familiar with someone matching the description of your phantom, but she only knew that she worked with that particular spy maybe three or four odd times, when she wasn't so much 'under Alba's claws', in her words- ex-ambassador Quercus Alba, you've heard of him, I'm sure. Anyway, she never learned who the phantom actually was, just the fact that they were likely a spy who got hired by many different organisations, which leads us back to square one, I'm afraid."

"...I see. Very well. Either way, we have that _blackguard_'s face, and we should have a name by tomorrow. All that matters is that I have a name for the head I plan to collect."

It takes you a matter of seconds to recognise the second voice as Simon Blackquill, and it's that second your entire being starts to go cold. They know your face, they know your _name_. It doesn't feel real. It _couldn't _be real. A chill creeps up your spine, and your entire form begins to shake, and then it hits you. You felt this once before, and then, too, it clouded over your mind. It hits you, and it surrounds you, and you can't think of anything else when it strikes. It's terrible, and you _hate _it, but it's everywhere, and maybe that's why you know what it is.

(Quite simply, you are afraid.)

* * *

You can't see anything from there on, and you can't understand why, but now, once again, you only hear Fulbright's voice.

When you try to furiously question him about what's happening to you, he's cryptic, vague. He tells you only that he has a feeling "you'll be meeting him again soon", but "I'm not completely sure about it", since "it's never actually happened to me". You snarl at him to tell you _what the hell is going on I'll kill you again if I have to_, and then you realise with a sense of irritation that yet another emotion has come back to get you: _anger_. It's raw, vicious, a little like fear in the way it starts to control your mind but it produces a completely different feeling in you altogether. (Even if you are regrettably feeling them again, you don't think you'll ever understand emotions properly. They come without warning, and at least with only the dullness over your mind you could do practically anything in the name of being a spy without having a single thing in your way.)

And then, suddenly and spontaneously, it's as if you're slowly rising into the air, your entire ghostly body being lifted upwards, and all Fulbright says before he's gone from your side completely is "..._Channeling._"

* * *

"..._Fool Bright._"

Blackquill spits out the words with such _venom_, you almost want to laugh right in his face as soon as you hear it. Before, if you'd thought that even for a second, you'd have denied it completely and forced it back down into your system, as if it were bad medicine. But now, you recognised that what had been normal for you had long since gone, you simply 'rolled with it', as you'd heard someone say before. Emotions unable to be understood besides their basic meaning were practically useless anyway, you were sure.

You begin to process exactly where you are. You knew you were being spirit channeled- the Fey cases were always significant, and you'd met one of them, after all- and your legs were chained to the wall, but not your arms. It seemed strange, but you weren't about to question it. You were more fixated on the man sitting opposite you.

"...I see you still take on the dead man's guise, even in death."

For some time, you didn't respond. But then, you tapped your head, gave your most winning smile, and laughed.

"Ha ha ha! You again, Prosecutor Blackquill? In justice we trust!"

Blackquill's eyes flash as he scowls. Your lips curl into a mocking smile, without you even fully realising it. (You're enjoying his obvious displeasure, but you don't feel _happiness_, per se. It's like amusement, but you're not finding anything particularly funny. You just got the exact reaction you wanted from him.)

The silence holds. If Blackquill had his sword by his side, he could probably cut through the thick atmosphere. You run a hand down your other arm. It feels so strange, actually being _real _again.

"So, Prosecutor Blackquill...why did you bring me here? Forgive me, but if there was anyone you wanted to bring back from the dead, I doubt it would be me." Your voice is casual, and you idly twirl a strand of hair belonging to your channeler as you say it, but you can just _tell _you're getting under the prosecutor's skin. He refuses to give in, however, and smirks.

"Hm? Not interested, are we? I came here for something that might be, ah, beneficial to you. I have little interest in a dead man walking, _Phantom_. Say a word, and I will have you sent back to the land of the dead, where you _belong_."

You quiet down, the other man looking satisfied at your clear annoyance. _Damn _Simon Blackquill, you think, _damn him_.

"...You are one of many who have caused _quite _an amount of damage to the law system. The Prosecutor's Office has been trying especially hard to identify and punish these people. Unfortunately, I was unable to claim your head for my own...the organisation behind your actions took the hunt first. Still, how could I let the bloody butcher who played the fool and took the life of my mentor away from my grasp...?"

"_What _are you implying, Blackquill?"

(You knew _exactly _what he was implying, of course, but you say those words anyway. What does he have to gain by doing this?)

"...Tell me, Phantom. What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

"...Nothing. I _am _nothing. I never will _be_ anything. They've probably stuck me in a shallow, nameless grave by now, I'm sure."

"Heh...ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, you never do cease to amuse me, even in death. If you truly _are _nothing, then what, may I ask, would this mean to you?"

You know what's coming, but you shiver nonetheless.

Blackquill lays a picture down in front of you. That was all it was. A photograph, and a name written neatly beneath it. The person in the picture...it's...you. After all, why else would Blackquill put this in front of you?

(You. You! _You! YOU!_)

"No."

You repeat that word over and over. No. No. No. No. No...No! No! _No! __**No! NO!**_

That slight acceptance you had for your newly regained emotions is gone in that moment, that moment where you shudder all over, your hands clenched tightly, screaming that one word, in denial that you were somebody because you weren't, you _weren't_!

You are nobody. You _are _nobody. _You are nobody. _You! Are! _**Nobody!**_

Even as your voice fades away, you can still barely believe a thing. The worst thing was this thing, this evidence that you had an- an _identity _existed, existed much more than you did at this point, you were a ghost, you were _dead_, you were a part of history only fit to be referred to in the _past tense_-

"...You did not die without a name or a face. That is all _you _need to have. ...At any rate, I have more than that to say to you."

You're still shivering violently, glaring holes into Simon Blackquill. This man had changed everything you had known for a long time far more than you wanted it to- what else could he have to say to make you suffer?

"..._Fool Bright_."

"You still...call me that name?"

He ignores you, of course. (Maybe, you muse, it is because you were a fool in detective's clothing during that year spent with Blackquill, and he would always see you as simply that.)

"...You were always a fool. A jester who took a detective's guise, who spoke nonsense of redemption and justice."

"I'm sure Fulbright will be flattered," you murmur in a quiet, deadened voice, but your head is hung low, your breaths slow, too tired and defeated to combat Blackquill's sharp-edged words.

"However...until recently, I was in your debt."

You smirk. Are those words really coming out of Simon Blackquill's mouth?

"On and on, you jabbered about how you would never give up on me. And...loathe as I am to admit it, I believed you- you and your _bloody _lies. You never kept silent, except for when I told you about myself. You stood by my side for an entire year...if these were much different circumstances...perhaps I would even thank you."

Silence fell upon you both once more. The other man doesn't continue, but simply stares. You raise your head weakly, and slowly. ...At first. And then, suddenly, you're reminded of Fulbright, and you throw your head up and laugh.

"Ha ha ha! Prosecutor Blackquill, thanking _me_? I never thought I'd see the day!"

You want to show another grin, as if you really _are _Bobby Fulbright- but you knew all too well that you were not Bobby Fulbright, and you never will be, but you are _somebody_. You flinch at the thought of it, but you've learned that you were indeed a person, at least at some point.

You bow your head low, and let out one last breath. This feeling...it's...odd. Joy, is it? No, that doesn't make sense. But you know that's exactly what it is. Pure and simple _happiness_, even though there are tears rolling down your face, lots of them, and you can't be bothered to stop them. Happiness...is this really it? Why are you feeling this way? All because that man, a man you thought you'd rather die another three times than see again, had said he might've thanked you if you weren't only barely a person?

"Oh, and one last thing...Fool Bright."

Your unrelenting tears don't match your faint, weak smile as you lift your head up to gaze directly into Simon Blackquill's eyes.

As he says his next, final words to you, he smiles.

"_Go to __**hell**__._"

"Don't worry about that, Prosecutor Blackquill," you say as you smile one last time with tears still streaming down your face, "I'll be _happy _to."

* * *

You know from the surprise on Fulbright's face that you are no longer, effectively, Detective Bobby Fulbright.

Strangely, the afterlife feels...different now. Still an endless road, yes, but everything seems more...vibrant. _Alive_, as inappropriate as that may sound. (Perhaps it is because you are no longer _quite _as bland and meaningless as your surroundings.)

Fulbright has changed too, apparently. It's as if he found life again while you were gone- he idly mentions concepts of justice and righteousness with light in his eyes and a smile on his face. There is still a sadness to his smiles that wasn't there in life, but he seems happier, nonetheless. You're not sure how much you care about his passions, but you can at least appreciate the genuine feeling behind it.

There's no doubt that there's still a part of you that wants to deny it all exists. Emotion, identity- just because it comes to you quicker now hasn't made it easier to understand. You've learned that it's a journey that you'll have to travel in your own time, even if you do have the slight disadvantage of being deceased.

Besides that, a face and a name does not an identity make. Personhood is something that is shaped and formed over time, apparently, not something given to you simply because you happened to be human once.

Fulbright encourages you to make your own beliefs, your own true self, if it doesn't exist already.

_After all, that's exactly what I did_, are the words he does not say but happen to hang in the air between them anyway.

It's rather off-putting, existing more as a ghost than you did while you were human, but nevertheless the naive detective you've seemingly been sentenced to spend eternity with claims he believes in you. Seeing trust as anything more than an illusion is difficult for you, but you no longer feel the need to object in Bobby Fulbright choosing to find humanity in you.

Hell is other people, but that very Hell is where your own lost humanity can be hidden and slowly recovered.

(At any rate, the two of you had an eternity to sit around and think about your identities and nowhere to go, so there was nothing to do but walk.)


End file.
